Anyways, welcome to the first new chapter in ff.n's nifty little chaptering thing. I finally converted all my stories! Yaysa! *grins* Tell me if you like the new subtitles, I made them up on the spot. *wink*
The King of Thieves
was an extremely light sleeper, which worked well for his profession; and
he also slept in a windowless room at the very top of the Night Dragon
Inn. He was at the door exactly six seconds before the assassin came
in.
"Jewel Swiftfingers
sends her greetings to you, Aaron Linnus," the dwarfish cloaked figure
told him in a hoarse male voice, plunging a dagger towards his stomach. But Christan was ready. He snatched the man's wrist with one hand,
twisting it hard enough to at least sprain it, and slashed at his throat. The little man was quick, though, and ducked almost out of his reach --
not quite quick enough, however; he had acquired a nasty gash on the cheek. As he slipped out of the door under Christan's arm, blood began to spill
out from it onto his dark cloak.
Christan barely
had time to register all this before much taller shadowy figures burst
through his ceiling and landed cleanly, one by one, on the floor. He disposed of the first two fairly quickly, but the third one kicked him
hard in the stomach as he dropped from the ceiling, and Christan was thrown
back into the door with a sickening crunch. His right arm -- his
knife arm -- was broken. Staggering, Christan turned pale, then grey,
as the intense pain in his arm grew, shooting fiery currents through his
entire body.
The thief who
had kicked him came forward swiftly with a fourth who had just descended
from the gap in the ceiling, both intending to finish him off. Christan
pulled another knife from his waist and brought it in a rapid downswing,
and the two of them were dead in an instant. Breathing hard, Christan
kept leaning against the wall, watching as three more thieves fell and
circled him.
Three left, Christan
thought weakly. I might be able to handle this. Stay alive,
Andrea.
They all darted
in at the same time; if it hadn't been for Christan's incredible reflexes
he would have been dead. As it was, one of them managed to slice
his throat shallowly before Christan finished them all off. He sat
there for a moment, concentrating on breathing, and then he collapsed into
the huddle of dead bodies before him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As I hurriedly
followed Farrell of Nicoline around the palace, I tried desperately to
make it look as though I hadn't wandered these corridors for three years
and memorized every corner and every door. It wasn't too hard as
long as I stayed behind him, but the older page still remarked that I'd
found my way around surprisingly quickly. I blushed and murmured
something, but I wasn't sure if he really noticed or not.
"All right,"
he told me, leaning against my doorframe in the early afternoon. I realized that any boy could be with me in the room alone, while no girls
were allowed to be -- which was odd and might cause some problems. Thank the Goddess I wouldn't need a girl for help with anything -- I'd
learned what I needed to know in the Yamani Islands.
"You've got your
uniform," Farrell continued, counting off on his fingers, "you know the
way to the mess hall, the squires' wing, and the portrait gallery, and
you're all unpacked?"
I nodded, expecting
him to leave once he'd checked me over. He'd been a good sponsor. "Thanks, Farrell," I told him gratefully.
"You know, Hiera,
you're not as green as some of the new pages around here. I like
you."
Grinning, I answered,
"Good, you'd be a bad enemy." I already felt comfortable around him;
he was exactly like an older brother.
He smiled at
my comment. "Christan, you ought to be a bit social before we collapse
into endless work tomorrow." Farrell winked playfully. "You
know, I don't mind all these girls getting into the knight program. They're good fighters, and they flirt pretty well, besides."
I raised my eyebrows
at this observation, painfully aware of the fact that I was a girl,
and stepped out of my room. "I'm ready to be social, if you like,"
I announced cheerfully, closing the door behind me. The pages' wing
was a new enviroment, but one that I liked so far, even with the secret
ache to be included in the small circle of female pages and squires. I would get used to it in time, I supposed.
"Hey, Farrell, did you get a good one?" a tall, grey-eyed boy wanted to know, heading
over to us. Farrell rolled his eyes, but I caught a hint of a smile
behind them.
"That," he told
me, pointing, "is Evan of King's Reach. He talks too much."
I grinned, my
shyness disappearing, as Evan clapped Farrell on the back. "Thanks,
old friend," he began, "for the one-sided introduction. Now who's
he?" Evan pointed at me, and I felt a twinge of strangeness at being
referred to as "he."
"I'm, uh, Christan
of Hiera," I said ungracefully, realizing I was supposed to answer that.
"He knows his
way around the palace already," Farrell told Evan, raising his eyebrows
in surprise -- or was it pride?
"Really? Finally, a page who won't wake us at some ungodly hour to ask us where
the training grounds are," Even drawled.
"Yes, praise
Mithros for that!" agreed Farrell, snorting with laughter. "Remember
little Marven of Jesslaw, last year?"
Evan sighed,
exasperated at the mere memory, and put his hand over his heart. "One of the great trials of my life, that boy was," he declared melodramatically. I raised my eyebrows.
"Don't mind him,"
whispered Farrell, leaning over to me. Having him so close made me
extremely tense, and I was strongly aware of who I really was. What
would they think when they finally learned the truth?
"I won't," I
answered softly, wondering where the real Christan was. The thought
sent a painful jolt up my spine -- how much longer before I got awarded
a trip to the city? Midwinter? Summer?
"So Christan,
I hope you'll stay awhile," Evan continued.
I looked up,
puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Loads of pages
have been dropping out," Farrell informed me, "because they don't fancy
serving King Roald." I nearly snickered, but kept myself under control.
"I prefer to
think of it as serving Tortall," I pointed out dryly, and the two of them
laughed.
"Good idea,"
Evan agreed. "The Lord Provost has almost reached the end of his
rope, though. The Rogue's getting out of hand, I hear -- all those
dropouts go straight to the Court of the Rogue and learn fighting from
the thieves, instead of from the King's knights. The fighters of
the Own are getting more unreliable, too. It's a bit scary, if you
ask me."
"Well," I said
shortly, not wanting to say anything else lest I captured the attention
of Roald or someone actually loyal to the crown. We could get accused
of treason, I figured, knowing Roald's policies well enough, and that was
a mess I wanted to stay out of. Roald couldn't prove that the knight
dropouts were in the Rogue, or that the Own was becoming less effective,
although most residents of Corus probably hungered for an easy solution
to all these problems. If Roald caught anybody with treasonous
thoughts, he would relish making an example of them -- daughter, son, or
no.
"It is scary," Farrell remarked slowly, "considering the Own and the Palace Guard
are keeping us safe right now."
I didn't think
so. The Rogue never attacked nobles outright unless they'd been provoked;
their main task was to steal so they could stay alive. Furthermore,
the idea of a direct assault on the palace was laughable. Christan
had no reason to do anything of the sort -- I looked down as I thought
of him yet again. I felt like I'd lost control of half my limbs when
he wasn't there to support me, and I couldn't be there to support him. Sighing softly, I told myself sternly to shut up.
When moaning
solves all your problems for you, you can keep going. Until then,
either be a page or be some pretty thing that Roald can show off in public
and marry to a complete stranger. Get a hold on yourself, Andrea.
"Samson, over
here!" Evan called suddenly, beckoning to the redhead he had agreed to
sponsor yesterday. Samson was on his way out of his room --
I noticed right away that he had stopped blushing furiously, and smiled
to myself. Farrell seemed to notice what I was grinning about, and
winked slyly at me.
"Hello," Samson
greeted us bashfully.
"Nice to meet
you," said Farrell kindly.
"Done unpacking?"
Evan asked Samson paternally. Samson nodded quickly, biting his lip. "Well, we've got one more day before the whole exhausting routine starts
up again," announced Evan. "Saxen doesn't begrudge us the rest, though,
whatever he might say."
"How is Saxen?"
I wondered. "He seemed a bit strict."
"Strict, but
quite fair," Farrell replied, with a good deal of respect in his voice. "And an amazing swordsman." I remembered the female pages' conversation
at the ball, about how only one page in history had beaten Saxen so far;
I wished I knew whether Squire Tessa had achieved that goal of hers yet.
"Almost too fair," Evan added. "Say anything about the girls in front of him,
Christan, and you'll find yourself at home." I chuckled a little.
"Don't worry,
I don't mind lady knights," I told them. They wouldn't know how true
that was for eight years.
Being away from
Christan was easily the hardest part of my training, even though I had
to scold myself for thinking about him so much when I should have been
concentrating. I longed to whisper things to him at night, and pour
out all of my worries and concerns and triumphs of the day, just to hear
his encouraging and helpful replies. I wished I could hear him tell
me what he was doing, and give him advice of my own, and be reassured once
again that he could take care of himself. My worst fears haunted
me all the time, because the King of Thieves was probably the riskiest
position in the world and it was an accepted fact that there were plenty
of attempts on his life. It was an idea that I forced out of my mind
every night, and then cried myself to sleep.
In the meantime,
I worked hard, rising at dawn to practice all of my Yamani exercises so
that my body would memorize them fully. In the twelve years I'd spent
there, I had learned more than I'd ever imagined, and the other pages made
jokes about how I was probably a knight in disguise. "You don't need this training," they'd tell me, and I gladly gave up hours to help them
along to avoid any suspicion; the only Tortallans who had any business
being in the Islands were the ambassadors and, well, the princess!
Kander had taught
me more than he knew about the pages' and squires' minisociety, and I fit
in pretty well. Evan and Farrell remained my good friends, and I
tried to get closer to Lexana without being obvious. The last thing I needed was for .. well, I tried to stay inconspicuous, anyway. I hoped that the girls could be trusted to know my secret, so if I knew
them well enough I could be included in their group -- but whenever I thought
this, I just had to shake my head and tell myself to stop moping. I was having a good time, and I'd have plenty of time to mingle
with girls once I was knighted.
As much as I
knew, there was still a lot to learn. I often found myself despairing
over Kander's absence -- my friends just wouldn't believe that I needed
help sometimes, and Tortallan history and etiquette danced around in my
head. I figured that I probably would be completely out of place
in the Yamani Court now, but at least my teachers thought highly of me. Book learning usually came relatively easily to me, and I eventually ended
up memorizing all the complicating dates and ways to ask a girl to dance
-- hopefully I avoided blushing through those lessons! It took awhile,
but I adapted to the routine. Mostly.
"Up on your feet,
boy!" yelled our staffwork teacher one freezing morning, after I had taken
my sixth blow from Maxwell of Disart, a young strawberry-blond boy with
hard eyes. "We haven't got all day. Or do you expect the floor
to lift you up all by itself?" I grunted, got up with narrowed eyes,
and wondered what the lunatic would do if I told him I was Princess Andrea. Sighing inwardly at myself, I was reminded of what I was here to do and
concentrated hard on my blocks. To my surprise, this time it was
Maxwell who was staggering back, unsure of his next move. I saw right
away, though, that he hated having to fight with somebody older than him,
and fought back viciously. Bewildered by his ferocity, I returned
his staff blows as well as I could -- the Yamanis didn't much like that
weapon, so I hadn't learned it too well -- and wondered why he seemed to
be so insulted.
Later that afternoon,
as I was cleaning the tack of my calm but determined mare, Sophie, Maxwell
approached me angrily. "You think you're such a quick learner, Hiera,"
he growled, "don't you? Your little friends worship you because you're
such a pig-kissing know-it-all."
"Maxwell," I
told him, frowning, "I'm not trying to injure your honor here. Calm
down!"
I'd said the
wrong thing, I supposed, although he'd probably take it the wrong way no
matter what I said. He balled his fists and leaned close to me. "I'm not going to obey every word you say, Hiera," he snapped, "like every
other boy here. Or every girl." He smiled -- apparently he
thought he was clever.
I rolled my eyes. "Come on, you can't think of anything better than that?" I drawled. "Get back to me when you can pick a fight a little better." I pushed
past him roughly, and skipped out of the stable before he could try anything
else. I had no time to waste on boys like him.
I had severely
underestimated Maxwell, however; by the end of the week he'd gotten two
third-year pages on his side, including Eryk of Spedret. I remembered
how much trouble Eryk had given Kander, and shuddered. Even though
he'd been forced to repeat two years of his time as a page due to exceedingly
bad performance, I knew he was a champion bully and I didn't relish the
thought of getting into brawls.
For one thing,
Lord Saxen gave harsh, almost excessive, amounts of punishment duty for
fighting, and I needed all the time I could get for extra sleep on weekends. For another, a fracas among the pages would probably inspire him to postpone
any special trips into the city. Seeing Christan for even just five
minutes was worth more than all the fights in the world to me, and I refused
to rise to Maxwell's bait. It was far too petty an argument for me
to care much, so if they wanted to play at being thugs, good for them,
I wasn't going to help.
Unfortunately,
his gang could thrash me without my help. Carelessly, I'd stayed
too long in the indoor training grounds to get a sword thrust correct,
and I didn't see them until it was too late. Farrell and Evan had
gone up ahead, probably thinking I would stay here over lunch like I'd
done a few times before. It was a perfect plan, really -- shame I
couldn't appreciate it.
"Hello, pig-kisser,"
Maxwell sneered. He pulled out a glinting silver dagger as Eryk and
two other burly third-years grouped behind him. Goddess, a dagger! Was he insane, trying to kill me just because I'd seen him slip a little
with a staff?
"Daggers?" I
questioned coolly, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. I would not let him see my anxiety. "Play fair, dear boy." I pulled out
two of my own, praying to Mithros for my life.
"Fair?" he wondered,
eyeing my daggers with gleeful anticipation, as though convinced a first-year
could not play this game. Let him think I don't know how to use them!
"I forgot," I
told him calmly, sounding falsely apologetic. "One word a time with
you."
He roared, charging
into me with a crash, and flailed the dagger around uselessly. I
quickly relieved him of it and tried to shove him off me -- he got a hard
knock to my jaw before I was free. Once I'd thrown him away, however,
the others were left.
Three, I thought
wearily. Christan didn't teach me all this so that I could fall apart
the minute I'm challenged. I'm staying alive. Gritting my teeth,
I went to it. Eryk threw a punch straight at my nose, and the two
others grabbed me from behind. I doubled up and slipped out of their
grasp, brandishing the knives. The two third-years jumped away, blissfully
unarmed, and -- hopefully -- realizing that I had the strength of a fifteen-year-old
to go along with my age. Eryk wasn't flustered at all, however, and
Maxwell wasted no time in diving right at me. Not wanting to use
the daggers unless I absolutely had to for several different reasons, I
turned the dagger aside and merely punched him square on the jaw, where
he'd gotten me before. Eryk drew an arm roughly around my throat
from behind and tightened his grip, making me gag, as Maxwell smashed his
fists into me, anywhere he could. Using the daggers was my only way
out now, and I still hoped they'd back off from fear before I had a chance
to draw blood. Maxwell's blade I still held; he wasn't ever going
to use it again if I could help it.
As my vision
started to darken, I held one dagger up to the arm that was latched around
my neck and dragged another one blindly out in front of me. I heard
a shriek at the edge of my vision, and suddenly I felt myself being slammed
to the ground. I blinked. Eryk had dropped me. Maxwell
had a large gash on his upper left arm, although it didn't look deep. The two third-years dashed off as they saw me begin to rise, and Eryk sped
after them, yelling that they were cowards, but I suspected the knives
had been entering a whole new realm of combat with these bullies.
Maxwell smacked
his heel into my side as I pushed myself off the floor, and shoved my face
down to the ground again.
"Pig-kisser,"
he whispered hotly, and tore off in the direction of the healers' wing;
arm, nose, and jaw bleeding freely. Sighing, I wiped blood from my
nose and got up fully, storing the daggers back under my sleeves. Maxwell's I stuck in one of the spare pouches on my belt. My nose
was stinging, but that could be fixed. I'd done well, considering. The best I could hope for was that they'd learned a lesson, although that
didn't seem likely at all.